What Your Heart Fears But Needs to Know
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Post TAB. Molly comes to Sherlock and John for help, despite the fact that she and Sherlock have barely spoken to each other in months. And when Sherlock learns what it is she needs help in finding, he must finally confront what he has run from for years: that the hardest, rarest and truest part of love is letting go...even when there's a chance that they won't come back.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

Even a happily married man and adoring father needed a break every once in a while to hang out with his best mate. And this is exactly what John Watson was doing this particular Saturday in early March. The two of them were in Sherlock's Baker Street flat, hanging out and ready to receive any potential clients who decided to come knocking.

Around noon, just before John suggested they grab some lunch at Speedy's downstairs, they heard a single ring at the doorbell with the correct amount of pressure to indicate a client's arrival. John settled more comfortably in his chair, and Sherlock dropped himself into his own chair, only his eyes giving away how eager he was for a new challenge. They listened to a pair of measured and determined – but light – footsteps travel up the stairs ( _a woman, then, and with a serious case, at least in her own mind_ ), and then the sound of three crisp but loud knocks at the front door.

"Come in," Sherlock called, ready and waiting.

But when the door opened, the two men saw the last person that they had been expecting to see.

"Morning, John," said Molly Hooper, nodding to him, and then turned to look at his best friend. "Sherlock." She nodded again. There was no trace of the friendly smile that she always seemed to have at the ready. In fact, her demeanor was purely professional, even a bit cold.

John's eyes immediately went to Sherlock. He saw the shocked expression on his face, and he seemed to have frozen involuntarily at her unexpected arrival. John was shocked as well. The detective and the pathologist hadn't been on the best of terms for months now, not since John and Mary had brought Sherlock to St. Bart's to pee in a jar. He'd secretly cheered when Molly had reacted the way she did – the git had deserved it, especially from her – and he could understand why Molly only visited him in the hospital when he'd been unconscious or asleep. But after the supposed return of Moriarty, things between them had gone from tense to all but shattered.

Because Sherlock had not let her know about his exile or said any form of goodbye. An exile which John, Mary, and everybody else in Sherlock's inner circle only learned later would have proven fatal. Plus, the overdose of drugs that Sherlock had taken that morning hadn't helped matters at all. After learning of these things, Molly's last thread of hope and trust seemed to snap, and the only interaction the two had from that moment onward was at St. Bart's, when Sherlock worked with the Yard on an urgent case. No more experiments, no more body parts, no more favorite bolt-hole, no more professional or personal favors.

"Molly, hey!" said John cheerfully, needing to break the ice, and began to rise from his chair.

But Molly held out a hand. "Don't get up, John, either of you. I came here as a client." With that, she seated herself in the chair designated just for clients and faced Sherlock. "Four years ago, I saved your life and the lives of your friends. I've come to have that favor returned. If that's not enough, I'm willing to pay a fee. And even if that's not enough, then I'll just go to your brother."

John couldn't speak if he wanted to. Never in his life did he expect Molly to speak to Sherlock like this, so coldly and with no emotion. _Just like he does,_ John realized, and his heart sank.

Sherlock, meanwhile, seemed to snap out of his shocked stupor. The mention of Molly taking her case to his brother must have done the trick. He blinked, sat up straighter, and became the image of detached professionalism. "There won't be any need for that. What is it that you would like me to do?"

Some of the tension in Molly's shoulders seemed to fade, and she took a breath before speaking again, keeping eye contact with the detective. "I need you to find Tom."

Yet again, the two men were taken by complete surprise. For a second, John was afraid that Sherlock wouldn't know who she was talking about. After all, he forgot poor Greg's name on a regular basis, and he doubted that Molly's former fiancée had ever registered in Sherlock's mind as important enough to remember his name.

However, it seemed that Sherlock knew exactly who she was talking about. He looked completely confused for a split-second before he snorted. "Molly, your engagement is over. Why on earth would you want to chase after him now, since you –"

Sherlock abruptly stopped talking at the rage that suddenly rose on Molly's composed face.

The small woman leaned forward ever so slightly. "Since – I – _what_?" she said in a very soft, very dangerous voice.

The detective, thankfully, was a smart enough man to know not to finish his sentence. John didn't dare speak either for, like Molly, he had a very good idea as to what Sherlock had stopped himself from saying.

Molly gave a derisive snort that was most unlike her and didn't suit her at all. "So, you assumed that _I_ was the one who ended things. I thought that the great consulting detective never assumes. But, ah, of course! Your logical reasoning is just as big as your ego, so you felt confident in coming to the conclusion that I ended things with Tom because poor little me just couldn't get over _you_."

Her gaze turned sharply to John who, unfortunately, looked just as guilty as Sherlock. Her face became even more angry and now disappointment and hurt were added. "You too, huh? I bet everybody else who knows me jumped to that conclusion. Just because Tom was tall, pale, had curly hair and a long winter coat? Like millions of other men in the world? Well, let me clue you two idiots into a fact that you are somehow completely oblivious to."

Her gaze turned back to the detective, who seemed to be trying to sink as low into his chair as he could.

" _Not everything revolves around Sherlock Holmes._ "

John Watson rubbed his forehead, feeling more ashamed of himself by the second. All of the Magnussen business and his own marital drama had made him completely forget about Molly's terminated engagement, thus he'd never bothered to ask what had happened. John suddenly felt that the answer would not only be surprising, but devastating.

Sherlock cleared his throat, his face failing miserably to look neutral instead of guilty. When he spoke, his voice didn't have its usual silky texture. "Why do you need to find him, Molly?"

Molly leaned back against the back of her chair, but her hands tightly gripped the armrests and her eyes filled with a deep sorrow. "When I first met Tom, and when we started dating, everything was okay. He was alright. But just before we got engaged, he would sometimes get sick. Each time it would get worse. Both of us feared what it could mean, but neither of us was brave enough to address the possibility…"

John's sinking feeling got worse for, as a doctor, he had a very good idea as to what this could mean. "Was it cancer, Molly?" he asked as gently as he could.

Molly nodded, now looking at her lap. "I knew he was a cancer survivor. Leukemia. He'd been in remission for four years when we met. He didn't think…neither of us…his oncologist had been optimistic…Well, a week after your wedding, John, he got so badly ill I had to take him to the hospital. The doctors looked him over, ran tests, and…it was back. Worse that before, much worse…they told him another year would be a m-miracle."

Molly swiped at her eyes and swallowed furiously, willing herself not to emote in front of the two men. Sherlock seemed unable to speak; he was looking at Molly as though he'd never seen something quite like her before. She could no longer meet his eye, so she didn't notice. So John asked the most difficult question, since by now he knew that Molly would never have ended things between them.

"Why did he end it, Molly?"

She bit her lip, took another deep breath, and managed to meet John's gaze. "He knew what was in store for him, and so did I. He knew that I'd watched my father pass from pancreatic cancer, and how those memories still haunt me. We talked for a long time about what we were going to do…and in the end, he wouldn't budge. He ended the engagement, called off the wedding…because he couldn't bear to put me through that again. And he didn't want to make me a widow so soon after being a wife."

She shut her eyes, hard, and her knuckles were white as they gripped the armrests. John opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Sherlock stole his words and spoke them in an almost broken voice.

"I'm…sorry…Molly."

His words seemed to come from the deepest depths of him, and they caused Molly to abruptly turn her head and look at him again. Her eyes widened, and for just a moment, John saw the old Molly, the Molly who had loved Sherlock so unconditionally though he did nothing to deserve it. But in the next moment, she had blinked and her guard was securely up again, and she only nodded in acknowledgement.

"So…will you take my case, Sherlock?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady.

"Yes." His response was immediate, and his tone was quiet and firm. "I will look into it right away. You're on your lunch break?"

Molly nodded. "I'm working until six o'clock today."

"I will inform you the moment I find out his condition and location. If nothing comes up by the end of your shift, I'll at least give you a status report."

Molly nodded again and opened her handbag, which was resting on her lap. "I know that you have a fixed rate, but I'm not sure what that is. Would you prefer I pay now or after? Or half now and –"

Sherlock held up a hand to stop her, looking almost offended. "No charge, Molly, no matter the outcome, so please don't think of that again."

"Oh, um…okay then," said Molly, closing her handbag again and standing up. "I'll be waiting for an update." She nodded to the both of them. "See you later."

She then practically fled from 221B, and a heavy silence permeated the flat for some minutes after that. Finally, with a subtle shake of his head, Sherlock snapped out of the frozen posture he'd fallen into since she'd left. He then picked up his laptop, which was on the floor by his chair, and opened it.

John spent the next few minutes trying to think of what to say to his best mate. He wasn't even sure if Sherlock either wanted or needed his help for this, though John wanted to help in any way that he could. Molly's words had certainly cut through him, and he wanted to do anything in his power to help her now and make it up to her later.

"That was the right thing," John finally said to Sherlock, who was now busily typing away on his laptop. "Not charging her for the case. I didn't really think you would, but –"

"John, that woman has saved my life three times, not to mention she has saved you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. To charge her now would make me worse than Magnussen and Moriarty combined."

John barely had a moment to feel proud of Sherlock when he processed what he'd said. _Three times? What am I missing here?_ But before John could ask, Sherlock was speaking again.

"I know that you want to help with this, and I have a task for you. I'd like you to phone Tom's parents and gather any information they may have about Tom's whereabouts. They may know more than Molly does, but if that doesn't give us the answers we need, I'll have to trace him through other means."

"Of course," said John, accepting the telephone number that Sherlock had just written down and passed over to him.

And with that, the two men set to work.

* * *

Thankfully, since Tom was not a criminal mastermind, he was fairly easy to track down if you knew where to look, which Sherlock did. Three hours after Molly's visit, Sherlock and John were leaving Baker Street and hailing a cab.

Once inside the vehicle heading for St. Bart's Hospital, John asked what he'd been wondering about since Molly's visit. "You said that Molly has saved your life three times. I know that she did so through helping you in the Fall, but what about the other two times?"

Sherlock didn't respond for a long minute, and just as John began to give up on hearing an answer, Sherlock gave him one in a monotone voice that didn't fool him at all.

"That is the most obvious and well-known instance, yes…When I was shot, it was her who came into my mind first, giving me instructions and helping me stay alive…which way should I fall, what my body was experiencing, to keep fighting…"

John nodded. That made sense, for since the Fall, Molly had established herself as someone who could be trusted completely, especially with Sherlock's life. "And the third time?"

Sherlock paused again, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He kept his gaze on the cab window. "Before we met…I had a relapse, and it was bad. To this day, I have no memories of those few hours, I was so high. When I came to, I was in the hospital with Mycroft beside me. Told me what a close call I'd had, that if I hadn't made a list I would be dead, and that he would drag me to rehab if he had to. I went and have been clean since."

"Except for when you went undercover in that drug den," said John with a frown.

"It was _for a case,_ " Sherlock ground out through his teeth.

"And, of course, the cocktail you served yourself before getting on that plane."

"I was supposed to die in six months, anyway!"

"No excuses. Now, please continue."

After giving an irritated huff, Sherlock did as John commanded. "Mycroft filled me in as best he could as to my movements while I was high. Most of the time, I had wandered the London streets, but my final destination was the lab in St. Bart's Hospital. Molly was working at the time, and when I collapsed at my microscope, she raised the alarm and called Mycroft."

John processed this new information, and it filled in some blanks for him. While it hadn't surprised him that Molly had been angry about Sherlock using again – all of his friends had been angry and rightly so – her absolute fury which manifested in three hard slaps across his face had taken him by complete surprise. But now her actions made perfect sense to him. Of course she would be furious to see him in that state again, and very rightfully so.

"When exactly was this?" asked John.

"About nine months before we met," replied Sherlock, his eyes still glued to the car window. "Molly had started at St. Bart's three months before that. I could see that she was the best pathologist from the first time I worked with her on a case, so from then on I only worked with her. When that became apparent to my brother, he approached her the same way he would approach you: offer her money to spy on me for him." Sherlock smirked to himself. "Like you, she basically told him to stuff it up his uptight arse. But she did accept his phone number 'just in case'…she didn't know what he meant like that…not until I stumbled into her lab high as a kite."

John nodded, and his next question more slipped out than anything. "Did you ever thank her?"

"She never brought it up and I was too embarrassed to address it," was Sherlock's terse reply.

Sherlock fell silent after that, and John didn't try to break the silence. It amazed him just how much Molly had done for Sherlock, from helping him in the lab to saving his life multiple times. And what had she received from Sherlock in return? Or from any of them, for that matter? Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't enough…

Now John could only hope that helping Molly be reunited with Tom – hopefully before it was too late – would begin to remedy that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

The consulting detective and his blogger found Dr. Hooper in her small office off the morgue, filling out the paperwork on her most recent autopsy. When she saw the two of them outside her open office door, she immediately dropped her pen on the desk and sat up straight, alert and anxious for any news they could give. "Anything?" she asked.

"We found him, Molly," said Sherlock, looking at her.

She took a deep breath, one hand gripping the arm of her office chair in a vice grip. "Is he…"

The detective shook his head, and Molly's body seemed to collapse in relief. John couldn't help but admire how tactful Sherlock was being right now. Both his voice and his gaze on her were gentle, and he couldn't help but feel a bit proud of his best friend.

When Molly looked up again, her voice was stronger. "Where is he?"

"In West Sussex just a few miles from Brighton. He's staying in a cottage right on the coast –"

Molly's gasp cut Sherlock off. Her hand covered her mouth, and tears filled her large eyes as she shook her head a bit. "I should have known…I should have known…" she murmured to herself, barely loud enough for the other two to hear. Then, in the next moment, strength filled her expression and posture as she stood. In rapid time, Molly had put away the paperwork she'd been working on and then grabbed her coat and purse from the hook on her office door. She then walked up to the both of them and managed to speak with gratitude from the heart. "I know where to go from here. Thank you both for finding him."

With that, Molly walked through the pair and left the morgue.

For a few minutes, the two men just stood there. Sherlock seemed frozen in place, and John wasn't quite sure what to do now. For all intents and purposes, the case was closed. Molly had come to them with a case – find out where Tom was – and they had done that. In fact, they hadn't even needed to give the specific address, for Molly seemed to put it together when she found out the basic location.

The text alert of his phone broke the uncomfortable silence. John pulled out his mobile and read the text he'd just received from his wife. "Mary wants to know if you'd like to come to dinner," said John softly and awkwardly – Sherlock hadn't moved yet.

After a moment, Sherlock blinked and then he was off. John had to jog to keep up with Sherlock's long strides as he made his way from the morgue and down the long hallway. "Sherlock!" he called.

"Tell Mary that we may not be back in time for dinner," said Sherlock, not slowing down. "We're not finished yet."

When Mike Stamford's office came into view, they saw Molly exit that room as she pulled on her coat. John followed Sherlock as Sherlock followed Molly, slowing his pace somewhat so he would not overtake her. Molly didn't notice until she got into an elevator and the two men got in after her. She only gave them a nod, most likely assuming that they too were on their way out of the hospital. But when they had left the building, Sherlock hailed a cab – in that magical way he did so that a cab always pulled over right away – opened the door for Molly, then told John to go in after her. He did as Sherlock got into the front passenger seat, telling the driver to take them to Victoria Station.

Molly now looked extremely confused, her gaze going to Sherlock. "What are you doing?" she asked, almost defensively.

Sherlock turned in his seat so that he could look at her. "You employed me to take your case, Molly. I intend to see it through." This was all he said, and though his face was blank, his eyes begged her to see that he wasn't doing this only to satisfy his own curiosity. John prayed that Molly would let herself see that too.

Thankfully, she did. She said nothing, but only nodded and relaxed in her seat. But John could clearly see that it was only her body that she was forcing herself to relax. Wanting to begin his own repentance, he reached between them and took her hand to show her that he truly was her friend. She didn't look at him, but she squeezed his hand in acceptance of the gesture.

* * *

Within ninety minutes, the three of them arrived in Brighton by train. Throughout the ride there, John and Molly tried to distract themselves by sharing a medical journal Molly'd had in her purse and discussing various articles. Sherlock didn't say anything for nearly the entire duration of the ride, in his classic "mind palace" pose. Molly was content to ignore him, and quite frankly, John thought it was probably best for Sherlock to be quiet right now.

He broke his silence as the train began to slow and pull into its destination station. "How did you know the specific location before I gave it to you, Molly?"

John winced a bit at that; his tone came off as very blunt and offhand, as though he didn't really care what the answer was but just wanted to know it for himself. _And that may very well be true,_ he thought sadly.

Molly turned a gaze towards him that could rival any of Mycroft's icy stares. "Three months before you came back, Tom surprised me for my birthday by booking a cottage on the seashore for a week. On our last night there, he proposed to me. Because Tom is just as weakly sentimental as I am, I know that's where he has to be if he's in that area. It's number 7 Willow Street, right?"

Sherlock merely nodded like an obedient child.

"Satisfied?"

He nodded again.

Molly turned back to the medical journal in her hands. In the short time that the train slowed and came to a stop, Molly ignored him and John glared at him. Sherlock just sulked in shame he would never let show.

When the train came to a stop, the uncomfortable party of three left the train and the station in silence. Again, Sherlock was able to get them a cab right away, and soon the three of them were off towards the final part of their destination. John could now see that Molly's iron façade was crumbling, knowing that she was about to be reunited with her former but terminally-ill fiancé. She bit her lip to hide the fact that it was trembling, but folding her hands together on her lap couldn't fully disguise their shaking. Wordlessly, John reached over and covered both of them. She didn't grip it back but she was able to relax a bit with a few deep breaths. Sherlock, once again in the front passenger seat, remained blessedly silent.

When the cab pulled up outside the cozy white cottage on the seashore, John couldn't help but feel that everything about it was idyllic. One couldn't ask for more from an intimate getaway location, low-key and sentimental. He had been planning on booking a similar vacation for his family of three once Emma had grown a little bit more to be able to enjoy all the fun a beach and the water could bring. Looking at this setting, John could easily picture any couple or family making beautiful memories here.

But now, he realized sadly, the memories that would be made here would be heartbreaking.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and asked him to wait for ten minutes. The group of three then approached the door, Molly leading the way with the two men right behind her. But before she could knock or ring the doorbell, she turned on her heels and faced Sherlock.

" _You don't speak or come near him unless he asks or I say so, do you understand?_ "

John was reminded of a mother bear fiercely protecting her cave and cubs. The worst part about it was not that Sherlock could only nod in response, but that Molly had every right and reason to do so, considering her long history with the consulting detective.

Molly turned back to the door, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. A minute passed, and then the front door opened. There stood a middle-aged woman, her long hair in dreadlocked braids and her dark skin contrasting against the light color of the nurses' scrubs she wore. John's heart sank a bit at the sight of this woman – if a nurse was there to answer the door…

"Hello," Molly began, her face paling as her mind thought the very same thing. "Please excuse me if I'm intruding, but –"

"You're Molly!" the nurse softly exclaimed, a hand coming up to her heart as she sighed in relief.

Molly's large eyes became even larger. "Um…yes…how did…"

"He keeps a picture of you by his bed," said the nurse. "He told me that the happiest time of his life was when he was here with you. Please come in, you'll do him a world of good."

With tears in her eyes, Molly followed the nurse inside. Sherlock and John, now feeling quite useless, followed in after them almost unconsciously. The cottage was cozy and a one-story cottage, so it did not take long to get to the right room. Upon arriving at the door, the nurse took Molly's hand and squeezed it, giving her a reassuring smile and gesturing her to go in.

By now, Molly had all but forgotten that Sherlock and John were with her. And when she softly opened the door of the room in which Tom was, she'd pretty much forgotten about anything else but him. Looking into the dim room with Sherlock and the nurse, John's heart broke.

The room was less a bedroom than a hospital room, albeit a very nice one with a large window overlooking the ocean. On the hospital bed in the room lay Tom, so different from the few times that John had seen him in person. Already skinny to begin with, he was even more thin now, his pajamas too large for his frame (though they probably hadn't always been). His skin was taut and waxy, and his curly hair had lost its life. He was hooked up to a heart-rate monitor and an IV drip, and an oxygen mask lay nearby. Just like the nurse said, the bedside table held a large and beautiful picture of Molly, which looked to have been taken on the beach just outside at a time when all had been beautiful and timeless to them.

John didn't need half of his experience in the war and in the surgery room to know that this man was dying, and had very little time left.

His eyes, which had been fixed on the window, turned when the door opened. When Tom saw Molly, his eyes widened in disbelief, then hope, then relief, love, and regret. " _Molly…_ " he breathed, his voice barely audible but trembling with sweet relief and a plea for forgiveness.

Molly was across the room in an instant, and gently perched herself on the side of his bed. She leaned down, cupped his thin face with her tiny hands, and touched her forehead to his. " _I'm here, love, I'm right here,_ " she breathed as Tom began to cry.

" _I'm sorry…_ " he breathed, his hands weakly rising from the bed to touch her, to confirm that she had truly found him. " _I'm so sorry…"_

Molly shook her head, tears of her own falling now. " _I've got you, I'm not leaving you._ "

John's vision blurred and he had to blink quite forcefully. He didn't need any more proof of how much these two loved each other, and what an unfair tragedy this would inevitably become.

Then, a movement from the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head. Turning his head, he saw Sherlock's figure practically fly down the hall and through the cottage. John followed him but by the time he got to the front door that Sherlock had left open, the cab was already driving away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

This was far from the first time that Sherlock had abandoned John at a location, taking off and leaving John to find his own means of catching up to him. However, this was the first time that John was not pissed off at Sherlock for doing so. Now, John Watson felt a great sorrow and fear rise in his chest. He may not be nearly as clever as his best mate in terms of logic and deduction, but in matters of the heart…

Stepping outside of the cottage until he stood in the middle of the front path, John pulled out his mobile and phoned his wife. Thankfully, she picked up on the second ring.

"Hey, love! What are you two up to? Did a new case come in?"

"Mary, it's Sherlock. He's going to board a train back to London from Brighton very soon now. Please use your technological hacking powers, find out which one he gets onto, meet him at the station, and take him to ours? Emma should be a sufficient distraction for him at least until she goes to bed. Then, if he won't stay with us, I'm going to have to spend tonight at Baker Street."

Mary gave a small gasp from the other end. "Oh my God, a danger night, John? What's happened?"

"Yeah, it's…it's bad, Mary." And with that, John told her about everything that had happened and what he had learned today. It sounded even more heartbreaking as he told it aloud, making it all the more real.

Mary said nothing for a few moments after he'd finished, and the first thing John heard was her sniffle a bit before she spoke. "Oh, poor Molly…she doesn't deserve any of this…"

"No, she doesn't," said John. "Not losing Tom like this _or_ the crap that Sherlock's thrown at her."

"I knew his situation with Molly had to come to a head at some point," said Mary. "She's too important to him and he's made so many mistakes in regards to her, but oh, that it had to happen like _this_! That it had to take something _this_ tragic and horrible for him to realize not only that he had a heart but where it rested."

"And that it's breaking," he finished for her. John sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. "Well, if there's one thing I do know, it's my best mate. And right now, he's dealing with a lot of feelings and emotions that he's never had the courage to look at and won't have any clue of how to handle them in a safe way."

"Which is where we need to come in," said Mary. "I'm looking up his train number and time right now, and I'll give Mycroft a ring too. Just to be sure that he hasn't done anything stupid on the way home."

"Good idea. He'll find out eventually, but right now, just tell him it's a danger night for Sherlock. The last thing Sherlock needs is a lecture from his dear big brother about sentiment and caring."

"You've got that right. What about you?"

"I'm going to stay a bit longer, to see if either of them need anything that I can give or do. I'm not about to let Molly think she's going to have to go through this alone; she's had to do that for much too long."

"Absolutely, love. Let them both know that the both of us are there, one hundred percent. Let me know when you're heading back, and I'll let you know when Sherlock is with me."

"Thanks, Mary. I love you."

"I love you, too, John."

* * *

The good doctor arrived at his home just over two hours later. He let himself in the front door with his key, and Mary came into the front hall from the kitchen as he was hanging up his jacket. The moment after their eyes met, the couple went to each other. They embraced and shared a kiss, letting their emotions outpour in these loving actions.

Since Christmas, not a day went by that both John and Mary didn't remember all that they had been through, all that they had nearly lost, and all of the good that they had rebuilt together. Both of them knew how blessed they were in each other and their daughter, so knowing that their friends were going through two different but equally terrible heartbreaks more than hit home for them just how lucky they were.

Their arms still around each other, John was the first to speak when their lips parted. "Where are they?"

"In the living room. He's attempting to burp her."

John gave a snort of laughter, stole another kiss, and then walked hand-in-hand with her to that room. Sure enough, Sherlock was seated on their sofa while holding baby Emma to him. A burp rag was slung over his left shoulder, and he was methodically and gently patting her back. The pinched look of his eyebrows told the parents that he was not having any luck.

John walked to them and removed the rag from Sherlock's over and threw it over his own. Then he held out his arms and said, "Let me give it a go. I need a good cuddle with her, anyway."

Thankfully, Sherlock wordlessly and gently handed over the two-month-old to her father. She gave a happy coo at the sight of him, and John gave her a goofy smile and raspberry kiss to the cheek before sitting down in a chair to finish the job. Mary took the vacant spot on the sofa beside Sherlock.

The group sat in silence for a few minutes until a little, high-pitched belch sounded from the smallest member of said group. Mary laughed, John smugly grinned, and Sherlock looked a cross between impressed and annoyed.

"Now will you believe me when I say you have the magic touch?" Mary asked her husband.

John shrugged, nestling his daughter in the crook of his arm so he could tickle her tummy and see her smile. "If you say so. I'm the burp king and you're the diaper queen."

"Damn right," said Mary smugly.

Sherlock said nothing, and thus silence fell again, this one heavier than the previous one. The couple had no idea how to address the elephant in the room – an even worse one than the literal one that had appeared in 221B Baker Street a year ago – but it was finally Sherlock who spoke again.

"How long does he have, John?"

Surprised, John replied, "You saw him, too. Haven't you already deduced that for yourself?"

"You know how my brain is my hard drive, John, and because I am not a doctor, I do not have the knowledge that you have when it comes to these things. So, please tell me before I must ask you again as if you were a child."

The familiar formula of a compliment and insult in one relieved John somewhat. Whatever hurricane of emotions that Sherlock was trying his best to suppress, he was still himself. And the serious look in his eyes assured John that he was asking for the right reasons rather than the wrong ones.

Sighing, and cuddling his daughter a bit closer, John answered him: "A week…maybe two…"

Sherlock shut his eyes and turned his head. Mary covered her mouth for a moment before she spoke. "Did Molly tell you anything that we can do for her? For them?"

"They asked me to call his family, which I did. I told them where he was and to come as soon as they can. They're on their way down there now, and I know that at least his parents will stay close by until the end."

"Good, that's good," said Mary absently. "And Molly? Is she staying the night?"

"More than that," replied John, his eyes on his baby girl, who was happily sucking on his index finger. "I had a private chat with her just before I left. Apparently, she had a chat with Stamford just before she left Bart's today, telling him about Tom and that she needed a leave of absence. Thankfully, he granted it for as long as she needed, so she's going to stay with Tom until…well, until. She asked if one of us could go to her place and bring up some stuff that she'll need tomorrow; gave me her flat key to make it easier. But I'm working tomorrow, so –"

"Of course I'll go!" said Mary adamantly. "I'll text her to make sure I don't forget anything. Emma and I can make a trip of it together. I know that seeing her will do Molly some good; Tom, too, it that's ok."

"I can do it," said Sherlock, causing the couple to look at him. "I have no cases at the moment, and it would –"

" _No_ , Sherlock," John said firmly, but his eyes were sad.

"Why not?" asked Sherlock, less like a petulant child and more like a hurt child.

John gave a great, fortifying sigh. "There's something else that Molly asked before I left, Sherlock…She asked me to tell you to please leave her alone. She doesn't want to see you or hear from you right now. I'm sorry, mate…but there's nothing you can do except honor that right now."

The expression on Sherlock's face was very reminiscent of the one he'd worn when Molly had first slapped him across the face months ago. His body slowly fell back into the sofa, as if he wished the cushions could just swallow him up, but of course they could only do so much. Neither Mary nor John could say anything, and for what felt like hours the only sounds in the room were their breathing and Emma's occasional gurgle.

Finally, Sherlock broke the silence with three words spoken so softly that the Watsons couldn't be sure he was even talking to them:

"She hates me."

There was so much shock and devastation in those softly spoken words that tears filled Mary's eyes. Reaching over, she took his hand and squeezed it. "No, Sherlock. Molly's not the type of woman to hate anyone, much less anybody she cares about. But she _is_ angry, and has every right to be. You've hurt her, quite a lot, and I don't think she feels she can trust you anymore."

Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, as though he were trying to keep tears from falling. But the Watsons knew that he was trying to process this information that he never expected and never wanted to hear. He spoke again in that same soft and devastated tone as Mary moved her hand to his shoulder:

"I've been so stupid…"

John couldn't even enjoy hearing those words from Sherlock that he never thought would come from the consulting detective. "We've all been, mate. Even after everything she's done for you, for us, we all just assumed, the moment we looked at Tom, that he was just –"

"No, no, I knew ever since our wedding how much Molly loved him," said Mary in a tone that would have been smug under other circumstances; now, it was just somber.

"How?" asked Sherlock, wanting to hear what signs he had missed (accidently, purposefully, or unconsciously).

"At our wedding reception, I saw Molly practically necking him just before they got their picture taken," said Mary. "Now, I haven't known Molly for as long as you two, but I do know that she is a good, mature, strong and loving woman. And a woman like that will not do that to a man in public unless it's for one reason: she adores him."

John looked like he wished someone would come along and hit him over the head with a rugby bat, and Sherlock looked absolutely dumbfounded. "I…I had assumed…"

"What? That she was just doing it to make you jealous?" asked Mary with some disgust and an eye roll. "I did mention Molly was _mature_ , Sherlock. No mature woman does that, least of all because it's not fair to the man she's with. Honestly, Sherlock, you really thought Molly was capable of that?"

"I…no, not…it's just…" Sherlock's tone and expression were the epitome of a man digging his own grave. He turned to his best friend for help. "It's not like she hasn't…John, you remember the Christmas party, right? The way she dressed up? Her gift for me?"

John certainly couldn't deny that fact, but thankfully, Mary was a clever woman who was immune to bullshit, both intentional and accidental.

"There is a very big difference between dressing up to impress a guy and using someone to make another person jealous," said Mary, giving Sherlock's shoulder a none-too-gentle shove. "Just as Molly could never truly hate anyone, she could never truly use anyone, either. And if John told me that story correctly, that didn't exactly go how Molly had hoped it would, did it?"

All Sherlock and John could do was hang their heads. Huffing, Mary got up and walked to her husband with her arms outstretched. "Here, hand her over. She's falling asleep, and you need to give your best mate a very important lesson about the fairer sex that he should have learned about twenty years ago."

After kissing Emma's downy head, he gently transferred her to her mother's arms. Then, because Mary was a clever woman who had an ultimately good heart to boot, she walked to Sherlock. Without hesitation, Sherlock leaned forward and gave Emma a kiss of his own. With a small smile, Mary walked out the sitting room and up the steps.

"Honestly, Emma," she murmured to her daughter. "You'll learn soon enough how dense men can be, and how lucky they are to have women like us in the world. We'll have our adventure tomorrow, and hopefully bring some sunshine to poor Molly and Tom. And hopefully your daddy can help your poor, blind godfather to learn his heart before it's too late and hearts are broken beyond repair."


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

For a long few minutes, the two best friends sat in silence, across from each other in the Watsons' sitting room. Sherlock looked like a lost little boy, and John looked like a parent who desperately didn't want to say the wrong thing or let their child down.

Finally, it was Sherlock who spoke first, more to himself than to John: "This wasn't supposed to happen."

John sighed and shook his head. "It's never supposed to happen, be it dying young or cancer taking a body over. It's never fair and it's never pretty –"

"Not what I meant, John." At the look his best friend gave him, Sherlock back-tracked. "Of course you're right, I'm not disputing that, but I was speaking of something else…"

"What, then?"

Sherlock gulped and looked at his lap. "Molly…she was never supposed to…"

He stopped talking, and John really didn't know what he was trying to say. "To what, Sherlock? Talk to me. You've never been afraid to say whatever you want to say to me, so don't start now. We're not going anywhere."

The detective looked at his friend, and knew he was speaking the truth. So he had no choice but to speak the truth in return – a truth he knew that his best friend would be disappointed by.

"She was never supposed to be…to be more than…my pathologist."

During this statement, his voice had gone from quiet to almost silent, but John caught every word. And yes, what he heard disappointed him a great deal. At the same time, he was not surprised; he knew better than a lot of people the lengths to which Sherlock went to in trying to make himself a machine rather than a human being. How many times had he seen Sherlock trying to make sure that Molly became no more than another lab tool for him to use? Ignoring or rejecting her advances, his clever and subtle insults to her looks and apparel, outing her boyfriend Jim to her (though he'd turned out to be something much worse), advising Molly not to try and have any more romantic relationships, and of course that horrible Christmas party spoke for itself.

At the great, sad sigh that John heaved upon hearing this statement, Sherlock spoke again, his tone louder and almost pleading: "But John, it was never my intention to cause her pain! That was _never_ my objective, and I _never_ imagined that her feelings could run so deeply for me."

"Not until the Christmas party, you mean," John said, nodding. "You really didn't think she had more than a crush before then? Or did you just not let yourself consider that possibility?"

The good doctor kept his tone calm rather than angry, understanding rather than accusatory. So Sherlock was able to answer him after a moment of contemplation. "I don't know…perhaps both…"

John nodded. "Your beliefs about sentiment and emotions certainly haven't done you any favors in this situation."

Sherlock turned an almost agonized look on his best friend. "You see, John? You see why I never let myself consider the possibility of her feeling more for me than mere infatuation for so long? There was no logical reason to at all! How could someone so good, so loving, so understanding…feel that way for _me_? A man who's caused her nothing but grief and pain?"

Any remnants of the anger John held disappeared upon hearing this and seeing how truly lost Sherlock looked. He chose each of his words carefully and deliberately, knowing just how important it was to get things right now.

"Sherlock, I won't ever deny that you can be a real asshole and a prick. There are even times when I believe what you try so hard to perpetuate: that you're a high-functioning sociopath. But those moments never last, and those moments aren't what matter to me. If it were, you wouldn't still be my friend, let alone my daughter's godfather. What matters to me is that you have gone, and will go, to the greatest of lengths for those who you care about. The Fall, my wedding, last Christmas, they've all proved that and they still prove that. _That's_ what matters to me, and that's what matters to Molly."

Sherlock looked back down at his lap. "You mean _mattered_ , John. She wants nothing to do with me anymore."

After a moment, John gripped Sherlock's shoulder, causing the taller man to meet his gaze again. "Sherlock…she came to us, to you," said John. "She could have gone straight to Lestrade, who'd help her in a heartbeat, or to Mycroft, since they've been on friendly terms – or, as friendly as Mycroft is capable of being – since the Fall. Hell, any private investigator in the city could have tracked him down within a day, since Tom's not a criminal mastermind. But she didn't, did she? Even in her anger, and her hurt, her betrayal and broken trust, she came to you."

" _Why_?" breathed Sherlock, and John could see that he really had no clue as to the answer. Under better circumstances he would have laughed or given a smug grin. But now he only gave a small smile.

"Because Molly Hooper isn't the kind of person to give up on those she loves," he said. "She never gave up on Tom, and she will stay by his side for as long as he has left, because she truly loves him. Now, even though she doesn't love you in the same way she once did, there's still love there. She may not be able to trust you, but she wants to be able to again someday. I don't think she's consciously aware of this, but it's there in her actions, Sherlock."

The detective suddenly got up and paced the length of the room. He stopped by the window, his hands behind his back in his standard posture, but John wasn't fooled. He got up from his chair, walked over to Sherlock, and stood beside him. This closer proximity allowed him to hear Sherlock's next words, again spoken more to himself than to John:

"She always helps me…even now, she always helps me…and she always sees me…"

Relieved that Sherlock seemed to at least be beginning to understand, John allowed himself another small smile. "Yeah, she does. And that's why she loved you, why she still cares about you, and why she hasn't completely given up on you. But don't think for a second that can't happen, Sherlock. Even as strong and forgiving as Molly is, a human being can only take so much pain and hurt from another person."

Sherlock looked at John with more fear in his eyes than John had seen thus far. "You…I could really lose her, couldn't I? She's always forgiven me before...but perhaps I wrongly assumed that she always would…" An urgency filled his eyes, and in a split second his hands were gripping John's shoulders. "John, tell me what to do. You always know what to do about these things. Please tell me."

It almost frightened John to see Sherlock looking so desperate and frightened. But what it _did_ make him feel was a great and proud relief. So he gently lowered Sherlock's arms and led him back to their respective seats. Once they were settled again, John spoke in that same calm and deliberate tone to his best friend:

"Two things, Sherlock, and neither one of them will be easy for you."

"I don't care, what are they?" Sherlock immediately responded, all of his attention completely focused on John.

"Well, the first thing is a pretty straightforward concept. Molly's going through hell right now, and will be for the foreseeable future, both before and after Tom passes. She's already lost both of her parents, has no siblings or immediate family, so she's going to need us – her circle of friends – more than ever to support her. We need to be whatever she needs us to be. And right now, Sherlock, she wants you to leave her alone. It's actually quite an understandable request."

Sherlock sat up reflexively with indignant fire in his eyes. "John, I've just told you, I have _never_ been intentionally cruel to her!"

"That's not what I meant, Sherlock," John said, holding up a placating hand, his tone still calm and firm. "Just think about this for a second. You've known Molly for a long time –"

"Seven years, two months, and sixteen days."

John raised his eyebrows at that but continued onward. "And in all of that time, she has helped you so many times, from running a test in the lab to saving your bloody life, with no thought to herself at all. But when, in those seven years, two months, and sixteen days, have you returned the favor at all? When have you ever helped her, supported her, did something for her with no ulterior motive? When, Sherlock?"

John sadly expected no response from Sherlock, and sadly he received none – because tragically, there was none to give.

As Sherlock lowered his head, John went on sadly. "It's like she said to us today, Sherlock: not everything revolves around Sherlock Holmes. In order to protect your own heart and keep your cold façade intact, that's how your relationship with her was. But that stops now, Sherlock. You're going to have to give back now. Be there for her and help her, and right now the only way you can do that is to respect her wishes and keep your distance."

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, making his curls appear even more wild and unruly. "For how long?"

John shrugged. "I don't know, Sherlock. That could be a while, but eventually you'll come face to face again. After all, her life will go on after Tom is gone, and your continual presence at Bart's will keep you a part of her life. Knowing her, I'm sure she'll seek you out to talk at least once and see where you two stand with each other. But until then, you'll have to be patient and wait for her to come to you. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded before asking, "So what is the second thing you would have me do now?"

Again, John gripped Sherlock's shoulder, indicating that he wanted the man to meet his eyes again. When he did, the doctor spoke in the most serious of tones: "While you're giving her time and space, you need to do some serious detective work on yourself. Not in your mind, but in your heart. You need to figure out once and for all what you feel for her, what you want from her, and what you're able to give her. It's something you should have done a long time ago, and if you don't do it now, you really will lose her."

Sherlock visibly and audibly gulped; the terror is his eyes at the prospect of this task was crystal clear to Dr. Watson. He could see now that the conversation was over. He'd said everything that needed to be said to Sherlock now, and he knew that there was more than enough for Sherlock to process in his mind and heart. Any more would be too much, and the both of them were exhausted.

So, John rose to his feet and Sherlock rose too. "So, will you take the guest bedroom or am I coming back to Baker Street with you?"

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh and his brow furrowed. "John, I've already told you, I would _never_ insult or hurt Molly like this now, of all times –"

"I know, Sherlock, that's not my reason," said John. "My reason is because you're my best friend, Mary's dear friend, and Emma's godfather. You're my family, as far as I'm concerned, and we're going to be there for you _and_ Molly in equal measure. You're not alone, and you won't be alone through this. It's been a long and hard day for all of us, and the last thing that any of us needs, especially you, is to be alone tonight."

Sherlock almost cracked a smile. "Careful, Doctor, that almost sounds romantic." John gave him a smack to the back of the head. "Ahhh! Sorry, sorry, not what you meant at all, I know."

He rubbed the back of his head, and the two men exchanged a soft laugh. While so many things about this situation were not right, the strong friendship between these two men most certainly was.

"I'll take your guest bedroom," Sherlock said. "Emma's loud awakening will be a good task to take on in the morning."

John chuckled as they began climbing up the stairs. "The missus and I would greatly appreciate a little break."

"Just so long as you two don't celebrate that break being just as noisy, my goddaughter and I will have no problems."

Another smack to the back of Sherlock's head and another shared soft laugh were the last sounds to be heard before the stairway light was turned off.

* * *

Soon after, John joined his wife in their bedroom. Mary had tucked a sleeping Emma into her crib in the nursery next door some time ago, and was reading in bed when John joined her. After shutting the door behind him, he began to undress. Which meant that John had convinced Sherlock to take the guest room. Good.

"So?" Mary softly asked, setting her book aside and anxiously sitting up. "How is he doing?"

The good doctor heaved a great, sad sigh and made his accurate diagnosis: "The poor bastard is head over heels in love with her, and I have no idea what he's going to do when he realizes that himself."


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

Ten days later, John went to 221B Baker Street, where he knew that he would find Sherlock. And it was a trip he knew he would have to make but nevertheless hated doing. The afternoon was uncommonly dry, which was rare for Great Britain in the early springtime.

Before going up to Sherlock's flat, he popped in on Mrs. Hudson and asked if she wouldn't mind whipping up a batch of the chocolate biscuits he knew Sherlock had a real sweet tooth for. Seeing the great sadness in John's eyes and hearing the seriousness beneath his tone, Mrs. Hudson replied, "Of course, and I'll make enough for you to take some home, too," and kissed his cheek.

When John reached the door of 221B, he heard the sound of Sherlock pacing and talking to himself, the way he only did when working on a case. Since that day, Mycroft had proven himself as a true brother by providing Sherlock with a few cases that gave Sherlock the distraction that his mind desperately needed during this tough time. Thankfully, Sherlock found the time to ask John and Mary for an update on Tom and Molly at least once a day. The Watsons, either separately or together, had made the effort of visiting the two of them in Brighton every other day. Little Emma brought smiles to both tom and Molly when they desperately needed them the most, and the support that her parents provided was a Godsend to the two lovers and his family. They provided equal support for Sherlock during this time; John sometimes helped Sherlock with his cases, Mary often had Sherlock come over for meals, and Sherlock became Emma's babysitter when the Watsons' were either working or visiting Molly and Tom.

But now, ten days after that terrible and heartbreaking day, John had come to 221B with a heavy heart and a heartbreaking piece of news.

Letting himself in, he found Sherlock pacing and muttering to himself before a wall of evidence he'd put up, dressed in his pajamas and a dressing gown with no shoes. Typical Sherlock, the consulting detective in his element…John hated to break that now, but it had to be done. He knocked on the open door to get Sherlock's attention; it worked. Sherlock's curious expression immediately fell when he saw the look on John's face, and the doctor spoke the words before he could fully deduce him:

"Tom passed away this morning."

Sherlock gave a long sigh and sat down in his chair. John sat down in his own chair, rubbing his eyes before continuing to talk.

"Tom's nurse called me a little while ago. Molly was right there by his side, and so were his parents. There was no pain, and it was peaceful. Tom's wishes for his burial were simple and minimal, so his funeral is going to be a small, intimate affair some time this weekend. Mary and I have been invited, and we'll probably take Emma with us"

"She is a well-behaved baby, so she won't be any disturbance or trouble," Sherlock said softly, looking at his hands folded in his lap. A small pause, and then he said, "How is she?"

John knew that he was no longer talking about Emma. John sighed and said, "We haven't seen her or talked to her yet. Veronique – that's Tom's nurse – said that she's just been a rock through all of this, especially for Tom's poor parents. But she also said that sometimes, when she'd pass Tom's room when just he and Molly were in there, she would hear crying from the both of them. And today, according to Veronique, Molly's really been supportive of Tom's family, taking charge of making the arrangements. She's staying strong…" John shook his head and winced as he blinked hard. "Which means that she's only letting herself mourn when she's alone."

At this, Sherlock shut his eyes and held his head in his hands. John was quite moved by this but not truly surprised. Not when he knew just how deeply Sherlock's feelings ran. He wondered if Sherlock knew yet.

A sharp ping broke the somber silence between the two men. It came from Sherlock's mobile, and he pulled it from his pocket as if it were a lifesaver. Reading the message, he said, "Lab results are back on the particle's beneath the four victim's nails…should help me narrow down the murder sites…" His gaze turned to John, and John saw two things: a plea for help, and a fear that he was saying the wrong thing.

John, though, gave a small nod and stood up. "I planned on staying, if I was welcome. I can pick up a sandwich from Speedy's later, and Mrs. Hudson is making us biscuits now. Now, fill me in."

Relief and gratitude flooded Sherlock's features for a moment – brief but John caught it – before standing up, leading John to his evidence wall, and beginning his exposition.

* * *

Hours later, after John had gone home to his family and Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed, Sherlock was still wide awake. The case was not solved yet, but that could wait until morning. Now, as he stood at the window, Sherlock's thoughts were all of Molly.

There was one thing that John had told him that had affected him more than anything else, and it was causing his mind to bring back a memory from three-and-a-half years ago…the night before his Fall…

* * *

… _Sherlock had just gone over the entirety of his plan with Molly. They were sitting in a corner of the morgue, speaking in a hushed voice with only the dead for company. Molly was silent throughout it, nodding occasionally and keeping her face carefully neutral and calm. When Sherlock was finished, he asked if she had any questions or needed clarifying on anything. Molly kept her gaze on a floor tile just left of her right foot when she silently spoke again. Her voice was soft, steady but small like a child._

 _"So…only I, Mycroft, and some of your homeless network will know?"_

 _"Yes."_

 _"And Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John can't know…until you return."_

 _"Yes."_

 _"…How long will you be gone for?"_

 _Sherlock shrugged. "Depends on how large Moriarty's network really is, but if Mycroft's and my calculations are correct…about two years." It took more effort than he'd anticipated to keep his voice neutral._

 _Molly blinked hard once, then twice. "And I…I won't hear from you at all, will I?"_

 _"Most likely not," said Sherlock, making his tone colder and more indifferent in an effort to keep it from becoming as soft and frightened as it had been when he'd first approached her about this. "In fact, it's best for you if I don't. It will be much easier for you to believe I am dead, especially since you're not exactly an adept actress."_

 _Molly stood up so abruptly that Sherlock felt his neck crack a bit as his eyes reflexively followed her movements. Her blank expression hadn't changed, but dark eyes were suddenly much brighter. Clearing her throat, and still not looking at him, Molly said, "Right. Um…well, you know where the body is, so…just give me a few minutes to ready myself…Lay the body out for me and I'll be ready to go when I come back."_

 _With that, Molly nearly ran from the morgue. Sherlock blinked in surprise at how quick she had been, but forced himself to stand again and do as she suggested. Being a strong man, he heaved the corpse that would be his decoy out of its frozen cupboard, plopped it onto a long metal tray, and transferred it to one of the work tables where Molly did her autopsies. However, when his task was completed, Sherlock started to get that tiny nagging feeling in his mind that perhaps he'd said something 'a bit not good' to Molly just now._

Nothing about this situation is any good, _he thought in frustration as he began to pace, waiting for her to return. What the hell was taking her so long? If he'd looked at the clock on the wall, he would have realized that she'd only been gone five minutes, but he was impatient to start._

 _Or was it because he felt badly?_

 _Shaking his head harshly, Sherlock muttered a curse and made his way out of the morgue and down the cool hallway. When he reached the door of the women's locker room, he was stopped in his tracks by a muffled sound coming from beyond the door, which wasn't quite shut all the way. Growing even more uneasy in his mind, Sherlock tiptoed to the door and opened it just a bit more so he could peek inside._

 _The moment he did, he wished that he hadn't left the morgue._

 _Molly's locker was open, and she was leaning her shoulder against the one just to the left of hers. She was leaning over; one hand was covering her mouth, and the other was clutching her heart. And she was crying. No, not crying – sobbing. Sobbing as if her heart were breaking._

 _And, Sherlock realized, it was. Because emotions weren't remotely his area, he couldn't specifically say why, but one thing he did know: it was his fault._

 _Looking at her, Sherlock felt his throat constrict and his eyes burn as a frightening idea came into his head: to go in there and comfort her. But Sherlock stopped at that, for he had no idea how he would go about doing that. Terrified by his physical reaction, this unfamiliar urge, his lack of knowledge, and this most terrible sight of Molly crying, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of doing that would protect him:_

 _He ran. Quietly but very quickly. All the way back to the morgue. He caught his breath as quickly as he could, trying desperately to delete what he had seen in his mind. But he couldn't; it was burned into his mind palace forever…_

 _Thankfully, when Molly returned to the morgue, Sherlock had caught his breath and his cool exterior was securely in place again. But he did give her a thorough once-over from the corner of his eye. She'd changed into her spare and more comfortable set of clothes, her pony-tail had been redone, her face had been washed and all traces of tears were gone. When she came to the body and looked at him over it, though her eyes were red her expression._

" _Let's get started."_

 _And so they did, working throughout the night in silent comradery. It paid off, too: the plan worked without a hitch. Afterwards, Sherlock hid in Molly's flat while she performed his "autopsy," and he spent the night in her bedroom while she took the spare one. She'd insisted, saying it was a better mattress, that he needed rest. Sherlock couldn't refuse, saying he could use the space tonight, but he wouldn't acknowledge the true reason:_

 _The room was Molly's. Everything smelt of her, especially the soft pillows and warm blankets. There could be no sweeter comfort the night before his long mission, during which he was sure there would be no comfort at all. So though he didn't sleep throughout the whole night, he felt no less comfortable or safe._

 _In the early morning, Sherlock left. He would have sneaked out without a word if Molly hadn't already been up, in the kitchen making a pot of coffee. Had she known that's what he would want to do? Had she made sure to wake up before sunrise to make sure he wouldn't leave without saying goodbye? He thought to what he had said to her yesterday about not staying in touch with her…and his questions were answered._

 _He accepted breakfast from Molly, and neither of them spoke. Finally, it was time for him to leave. At her doorway, Sherlock could see that Molly was harnessing in all of her strength to keep herself together until he was gone. His heart twisted in the same painful way it had when he'd seen her crying in the locker room, and knew that the sooner he left the kinder it would be to her._

 _But he also knew that he had to say goodbye. She needed one; he didn't know why, but she needed one. And because his mind wasn't helping him at all, he left it to something else inside him to do it._

 _So, he placed his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her forehead before resting his own against his as he said, "Goodbye, Molly Hooper. And thank you." He tried to make his tone as sincere as possible, and it wasn't hard because it was the truth._

 _He was out of the flat in the next second and practically racing down the stairs of the building. Just because he knew that Molly was giving into her tears now didn't mean he had to leave slowly enough to watch or hear it happen…_

* * *

…When Sherlock came out of this sorrowful memory, he picked up his violin and played through a new composition that was being born in his heart. It was heart-breakingly sad but desperately beautiful, because it was born of his memory and the emotions it rose up in him that he couldn't yet name but had to get out somehow.

And, for such an observant man, he never once noticed that his cheeks were wet.

* * *

Meanwhile, on an isolated spot on one of Brighton's many beaches, bathed in moonlight, Molly was crying without restraint, the sounds drowning in the sound of the waves.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

 _"Knowing her, I'm sure she'll seek you out to talk at least once and see where you two stand with each other."_

It took a month after Tom's death for John's prediction to come true.

When it did, the Watsons' dinner was interrupted by rapid and desperate knocking on their front door. Knowing that it could only be one person, John immediately rose from the table and rushed to the front door before his neighbors would call to complain or worry. Sure enough, there stood the world's only consulting detective on his front stoop. He looked absolutely terrified, and the first thing he did was to shove his mobile's lit screen in front of John's face.

It consisted of a single text message from Molly Hooper, sent some thirty-seven minutes ago:

 _We need to talk. Tomorrow, my favorite bench in Kensington Gardens, 7 AM._

After reading the text, John noticed that Sherlock's right hand – the hand holding up the mobile phone – was shaking. Letting out a huge breath, John pulled Sherlock inside. "Come on. Giving Emma a cuddle will calm you down."

* * *

Minutes later, Sherlock and the Watson family were gathered in the sitting room. Sherlock was holding Emma, who was happy as a clam since he was letting her play with and suck on his fingers. John was right in that the activity did calm him down. Well, physically at least. Though his body was now relaxed, his mind was still panicking.

"I can't make a mistake," he said to John and Mary. He kept his voice calm and hushed for the sake of Emma, but his eyes revealed how scared he was. "I've already made too many, much too many, and it's a miracle that she's even initiating contact with me after everything that's happened. Both of you, please tell me how to avoid that at all costs."

Under other, better, and less tragic circumstances, both John and Mary would be smirking like children at the sight of Sherlock actually asking – no, _begging_ – for help. But neither one even thought of doing that now, because the both of them knew the potentially serious consequences of this conversation could be.

Unlike Sherlock, the both of them had been in frequent contact with Molly in the past month. Mike Stamford had very kindly told her to take as much time off as she needed, which Molly accepted with no hesitation. After all, when you lose the person you love the most, and your job mainly consists of cutting up corpses, one doesn't exactly want to jump right back into work. She'd spent the first week with Tom's parents in Northampton, and then she had returned home to London. Mrs. Hudson visited her frequently, checking up on her and feeding her at every opportunity. Greg Lestrade also supported her by taking her out to the pub some evenings to watch football; though she wasn't as big a fan as him, these outings were the perfect alternative to lonely evenings wallowing in her grief. And, of course, the Watsons were doing everything in their power for their friend. They visited her, she visited them, they went out together, she babysat Emma, Mary took her out and she took walks with John.

And through all of this, Molly still never saw or heard from Sherlock. Though Lord knows he wanted to, Sherlock followed John's words of wisdom and didn't try to seek her out. Her leave of absence from St. Bart's helped, as did the Watsons, but every day it grew harder and harder. But now this text had come, and he would finally see her and speak to her again tomorrow.

"Makes sense that she sent it tonight," said Mary, after a silence had stretched out its length. "She's going back to work tomorrow, and it's at St. Bart's where you two interact the most. So she wants to try and come to an understanding with you in order to avoid creating problems when your work paths cross."

Sherlock gulped. "So…that's the only capacity in which she wants to see me…for work."

John sighed. "I wouldn't be surprised, Sherlock. The relationship you two have had over the years has never been very well defined or even stable. Right now, she needs stability, and limiting her contact with you to just Bart's would do that."

Sherlock blinked, and sat back against the sofa cushions. Another silence followed before Sherlock broke it again, nodding to the baby in his arms as he caught Mary's gaze. "Could you take her, please? I'm beginning to lose the sensation in my fingers."

Mary gave a small smile and complied. Emma began to protest at the loss of Sherlock's fingers, and she chuckled. "I'm going to go upstairs and nurse her royal highness. Just stay here and listen to my hubby. He may not be able to deduce worth a damn, but in matters of the heart, he is an expert whereas as you are an idiot."

She ruffled Sherlock's curls before leaving the room. John gave her a playful glare and pinch as she passed him, but returned the kiss she gave him before she and Emma were gone. Left alone with Sherlock, John sighed and spoke. "Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock did.

John continued. "The worst thing that you can do tomorrow is to go and see her without being clear or honest with yourself about two things: how you feel about her, and what you want from her. Have you figured that out yet? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but please tell me if you have or haven't."

Sherlock shut his eyes and sighed. That had been the other half of John's advice to him a month ago, and just as with the first half, Sherlock had taken it to heart. It took him a moment to answer, and when he did, his voice was filled with defeat and sadness:

"Yes, John, I have. But telling you or her will not do any good right now. I may be an idiot about these things, but I know that much."

Sherlock looked at John, begging him with his eyes to understand what he couldn't say. And John, wise man that he was, did indeed understand. Recalling what he'd told Mary weeks ago, he knew for sure now that he'd been right:

Sherlock was in love with Molly.

Nodding, John took a deep breath and spoke carefully: "I don't know what Molly's going to tell you tomorrow. She hasn't talked about you to either Mary or myself, beyond asking how you're doing from time to time. So…let her start the conversation and hear her out. Let her say everything she needs to say, and listen, really listen to her. Then and only then do you talk, and so help me God, think with both your head _and_ heart before you do."

* * *

The next morning dawned misty and cool. It being the month of April, the sun had risen by the time Sherlock and Molly were to meet, but it was having a hard time just barely peeking through the clouds and mist over London. Sherlock arrived at Molly's favorite bench in Kensington Gardens with a few minutes to spare; no way was he going to risk being late for something so important. The bench in question was one near the statue of Peter Pan in the park.

He knew that this was her favorite bench because she had told him so on the day he had enlisted her help in solving crimes. They had walked through Kensington Gardens on the way to see Lestrade's fake ripper scene, and she had pointed out the bench as her favorite spot she would come to with her father when he brought her here.

Sherlock sat himself down on one side of the empty bench and settled down to await her arrival. Thankfully, she arrived right on time so he only had a few minutes to stew in his own nerves. When she did arrive, she appeared slowly, due to the mist. First her form, then her silhouette, then Molly herself. She was walking at a leisurely pace and she had earbuds in her ears; the look in her eyes was far away.

Seeing her again after forty-two days, and with this newfound clarity about his feelings for her, Sherlock's heart twisted painfully when he saw her clearly. Judging from the hang of her already baggy trousers and jumper, she'd lost nearly eight pounds since he'd last seen her. The dark circles beneath her eyes weren't surprising; of course she wouldn't be getting many good nights of sleep in her grief. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but not the kind that she usually wore. Instead of one that was neat and high up the back of her head, this one was carelessly done at the base of her neck, a few loose strands tucked behind her ears.

Her usual sparkle, her Molly sparkle, was gone. And Sherlock felt his heart break.

When she came close to her bench, her eyes lifted and fell on Sherlock. She stopped short almost in surprise, but a little shake of her head pushed that away. Her mind, like her eyes, had clearly been far away from their scheduled meeting. Once Sherlock would have been vainly offended; now he couldn't really blame her at all. She took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, facing forward and folding her hands after removing the buds from her ears.

Though the distance between their bodies couldn't have been more than two feet, Sherlock felt that the distance could have spread over both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans combined. How desperately he wanted to close that distance, but he wisely restrained himself and held his tongue. Taking John's advice thus far had proven beneficial and he obeyed it now by waiting for her to initiate the conversation.

Eventually, she did. "Thank you for meeting me here and now."

"Of course," Sherlock replied automatically. He wanted to say more, such as the last thing that she needed right now was him making her life more difficult (for that's really all he'd ever done for her, hadn't it?), but again he held his tongue.

Molly continued, looking at her folded hands rather than at him. "And thank you also for…well, giving me space…I'm sorry if this made it very difficult at Bart's for you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and winced. _She_ was apologizing to _him_ now? But he wasn't truly surprised. She may have lost her spark but she was still Molly: selfless to her core, even in her anger and grief. "Very difficult, no, Molly. And you have no reason to apologize at all. Considering our history and the way I am…it was the right thing to do."

Molly let a deep breath in and out. It was a shaky one, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from asking her, "How are you holding up?"

Another shaky breath, this time accompanied by a slight shake of her head. "I feel like a live-wire, an unstable chemical substance, where just the slightest disturbance could make me go off. I never know what sight, sound or smell will bring back a memory and set me off crying. I know it will get better as time passes – it did with my dad – but knowing that doesn't make this time, right now, any easier."

Sherlock nodded. He could relate to that, thinking back to the time of Redbeard's passing. He also realized just how lucky he was when that was set aside. Both of his parents were alive and in good health; he had an older brother who, in addition to being a pain in the ass, was alive and cared for him; he had friends, true and good friends, who were there for him; and he was still alive, sober, and intact, which, in his line of work, was nothing short of a miracle.

And Molly…she had lost both parents, had no siblings or immediate family left, had few friends, and had just lost the man she loved and wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

Being a consulting detective – or having any kind of career in medicine, law enforcement or safety – meant that you saw horrible proof of the unfairness of life on a daily basis. None of those countless times compared to the one that Sherlock realized between himself and Molly now. Molly was so good, so selfless, so loving…and he was an emotionally-inept arsehole.

No. Life wasn't fair at all.

All of this passed through Sherlock's mind in the span of a minute, and the result was such a strong surge of self-loathing that he had to rub his face with his hands. He desperately wanted to speak more than ever, to apologize, to promise her all that he could give, and tell her everything in his heart. But then he looked at her, this time turning his head towards her to do so, and his tongue remained dead still. Her body language told him everything: eyes on her tightly folded hands, shoulders hunched forward, tense muscles…She still didn't trust him. She'd been hurt, she was hurting, and she didn't want to get hurt again.

So Sherlock kept his mouth shut, and waited for her to speak again.

Watching her, Sherlock could see that Molly was working out what she wanted to say, the reason why she had asked him to meet her here in the first place. He waited, terrified, not daring to even breathe too loudly. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Molly took a deep breath, turned on the bench and really looked at him for the first time in forty-two days. Though slightly bloodshot and without their lovely sparkle, her big brown orbs were full of a fire that was being reborn from the ashes.

"Sherlock, there are so many things I'm unsure of now and that I'm having to reevaluate, especially my life. Do I want to stay in London and at Bart's or really consider some of the offers from different institutions that come my way? Do I want to continue my work in practicing pathology or should I consider focusing on teaching or research instead? And my personal life…I still want to have a family someday. Should I start planning for that alone? Will I ever be able to fall in love again or will I have to live with this fear forever?" She managed a hollow chuckle. "See? I've got a lot to question and make decisions about as it is. Which is why I need to know who I can count on and who my friends are."

The consulting detective had the impulse to pull her to him and say over and over that she could count on him and he would be whomever she needed to be. But because he knew that she would push him away and say she didn't believe him. So he kept still (by the skin of his teeth) and let her continue with baited breath.

"I'll be honest with you, Sherlock: You hurt me deeply, I'm still furious with you, and I don't trust you as I once did anymore. But I hope that can change someday…because even after everything, I still care about you…and I'm not ready to lose another person that I care about."

That did it. Sherlock turned on the bench to fully face her as he spoke. "You won't, Molly. I know I've taken you for granted, and I've treated our relationship abysmally. You have always helped me, been there for me, and if it weren't for you I wouldn't be alive today. I know you won't believe me when I say this…but I care for you too. I don't just see you as a tool in the lab or a fool I can manipulate for my own means. I've done a terrible job of showing that, but no more. I'm a very intelligent man with friends who more than make up for the sentimental qualities that don't come naturally to me. So I know that I am capable of doing better, of being better, for you. Please, Molly, give me that chance. I swear to you…I will do everything in my power to deserve your friendship and earn your trust back."

The moment Sherlock was finished, he feared that he had gone too far. And it was no wonder, because Molly Hooper looked absolutely gob smacked. At least, that was a term that John or Mary would use to describe a comical-looking shocked and speechless expression. Normally, Sherlock would use a much less juvenile term, but no suitable alternative came to mind.

Her gob smacked expression only lasted a few seconds, though. It then turned into something else entirely: an expression of intense focus and searching. Her eyes looked into his, and Sherlock found that he couldn't move. Her gaze was almost deducing, but it wasn't the same as what he usually did. His own deducing gaze took in everything on the outside; the gaze she was giving him now seemed to look right into his soul. And he knew what she was looking for: any sign of a lie, a deception, false emotion or empty promises. All Sherlock could do was hold her gaze, and hope that Molly would remember one essential fact:

 _She could see him._

Finally, after an eternity of a minute, Molly blinked, turned away and stood up. But before Sherlock's heart could sink too deeply into his stomach, Molly faced him again. She looked at her watch, and then she looked at him.

"I have forty-five minutes until my shift starts," she said. Her tone was quiet, neutral, but strong. "It doesn't look like it's going to rain, and it's not too cool, so I'm going to walk." She paused, giving him a hard look again. "You can join me if you want…but only if you're willing to talk to me about what happened since John and Mary's wedding. I never heard your side of it, there are questions I need answered…and if we're ever going to move forward, the past needs to be settled right."

Then, Molly held out her hand to him.

For a moment, all Sherlock could do was stare at it as his heart rejoiced. _She saw me! She's helping me! She's giving me a second chance!_ He quickly snapped out of his shocked and joyous stupor though, and gladly took her helping hand.

But his heart grounded when, the moment he was standing on his own two feet, she pulled her hand away from his and shoved both hands into her coat pockets. Her posture became alert and guarded, and she took a step back from him.

She may be giving him a second chance, but he still had to prove himself as a true friend to her. And that would take time, possibly a very long time, and a lot of hard work on his part. But Sherlock refused to be intimidated or back down, as he may have once done in a different time before he'd known her or John. Molly was too precious to him – the most precious person to him – and he would never forget that again. So now, he would be whatever she needed him to be, even if that meant letting her go in the future if she decided her life belonged somewhere else…even, one day, with someone else.

However, those were fears for the future, and all that existed and mattered was now, what she needed this moment now. And of course he would give it (even if the Watsons got mad at him for revealing somethings), for she could be trusted completely and deserved to know everything that happened which had caused her hurt.

So, Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and said, "You are a wise woman, Molly Hooper. Ask me anything you wish, and I will answer with the truth."

Molly nodded, her facial expression remaining neutral but her shoulders relaxed just a bit.

So the two figures began to walk side-by-side down the garden path and through the thick mist. Each had a long road ahead of them, one of grief and one of redemption. But now, at least, there was hope that the two of them would not only conquer their paths…but that their paths would end by crossing and merging together.

 _ **The End… (for now)**_

* * *

 **A/N:** _You really think I would make this the final ending? I ship Sherlolly, not "almost Sherlolly". This tale will be continued in another story that I will start in the near future. I have a Mollcroft story to finish first though, but that one has only a few chapters to go. So review here and review there to keep me motivated and the sooner we will see this two find the happiness they deserve in each other._

 _BTW - the title of this story comes from the song "The Hardest Part of Love" from the musical "Children of Eden". Fair warning: it may make you cry, especially if you're a parent._


	7. Author's Note - Sequel posted!

The first chapter of the sequel has been posted, called "This Step Is Once Again Our First." I hope that it does this story justice and gives it a satisfying closure for you wonderful readers. Please enjoy and review!


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